And suddenly I was struck by the disjunction of it. I wondered if the leaf-blowing man was mesmerized by his occupation. It seemed unlikely — thankless, unending undertaking that it is this time of year. I imagined him tranquillized, rather, his mind left to wander over the other gardening jobs that faced him that day; his concerns, perhaps, for his friends' marriage; a dozen daydreams of what he might rather be doing. For him, I suppose the cascading leaves represented not captivating art, but a toilsome obstacle preventing his progress towards more interesting tasks.